Ways to Leave Your Lover
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: "But I'll repeat myself at the risk of being crude -There must be fifty ways to leave your lover. Fifty ways to leave your lover." -Paul Simon


_For Alpha, who once bemoaned that J/P is so often predicated on the author__'__s ability to get B__'__Elanna out of the way. Or as Alpha put it, __"__fifty ways to leave your lover.__" __It took four years of friendship for that comment to resonate in my head as a dare, but resonate it did. Oh, and for B__'__Elanna, whom I do so love as a character. Even when I__'__m throwing her out an airlock. _

_I don'__t own anything. I__'__m just borrowing from Paramount and now __Paul Simon. ;-)_

* * *

1.

"This isn't really working for me," B'Elanna says, and Tom misunderstands her. Tries for a minute to adjust his angle and speed until his girlfriend pushes him away entirely, her elbow connecting solidly with his collarbone.

He makes more of a rasping sound than a word, pulling back so quickly from her body that he practically falls off the bed.

"Sorry," she says to him, even as she's pulling on her clothes and then searching for her commbadge on the floor. "I really thought I was into men as well as women. Or least that I was attracted enough _to_ _you_. But male genitalia is just so… _unappealing _to look at. I can't get over it."

She makes a triumphant sounds when she finally locates her commbadge, pinning it to her undershirt.

Tom just stares at her in horror.

"You're dumping me because I have a penis?" he finally manages.

"Your penis shouldn't take it personally," B'Elanna shrugs and saunters out.

. . .

2.

Her neurologists have been trying to warn Tom for months that this was a possibility. It's just a possibility he never let himself consider, before today.

"I'm sorry," B'Elanna tells him as she packs her things. And it seems like she actually means it, save for the wary look she gives him as he stands there, grim-faced and holding their infant daughter. "I know you see me as your wife. But I'm not that woman and I have know idea how to be her."

She apparently doesn't want to be that woman either. And although Tom knows this isn't her fault and her memory loss has simply reverted her back to that angry, scared woman from before _Voyager,_ he can't help but feel a little hatred at the moment.

"You're both better off without me," she mutters, continuing to neatly stack belongings she doesn't even recall acquiring.

"This is cowardly," he tries to bait her. "_Too_ cowardly for you."

She shoots him a baleful look, not slowing in her project for a moment. "You should comm that Janeway woman," she advises, her tone darkening as she sets down a container of uniforms she'll likely never need again. "You two seem rather fond of each other and she's quite the maternal type."

Funny that she doesn't remember loving him, but she knows exactly where to slide the knife.

. . .

3.

"Should I go for the prickly green stuff or the slimy brown stuff that looks like it's moving?"

"I would normally say neither," B'Elanna replies to Tom. "But I'm out of rations, so I'm going with the prickly stuff."

"I don't like food that actively flights back," Tom shakes his head. "I'll go with the stuff that's merely trying to flee."

"Lieutenant Torres," Neelix smiles as they pass him, trays in hand. "You're the first one to sample my Bromal Casserole! Makes sure to tell me what you think- it's an approximation of an old family recipe."

"First one to try it," Tom repeats, once they're out of earshot. "Never a good idea, Chief."

"Coward," B'Elanna teases him, approaching the table at which Chakotay and the Captain already seated at, the command team having politely waved them over.

"Not cowardice," Tom volleys back, "just healthy self-preservation. Food tasters aren't known for their long lifespans."

"Neelix hasn't killed anyone yet," Chakotay tells him, his tone mildly rebuking.

"Made a few people wish for death, maybe," Tom mutters back, B'Elanna rolling her eyes slightly when the Captain laughs, touching her hand to the pilot's arm.

"You alright?" Chakotay asks B'Elanna, who seems to choke on her first bite of lunch. Pushes her tray away with no small amount of force.

"It felt like it stung the inside of my throat as I swallowed it," B'Elanna says, rubbing the base of her neck.

"Perhaps you should go to Sickbay, Lieutenant," the Captain weighs in. "Just in case."

"I'm fine," B'Elanna shakes her head. "Though it pains me to admit that Tom was actually right about something."

Paris starts to make a retaliatory comment, but trails off mid-quip when B'Elanna starts to gasp for breath.

None of them have even managed to stand by the time she slides to the floor with a quiet thud.

. . .

4.

"Easy does it," Tom cringes, his body tensing in anticipation as Chakotay begins to put the shuttle down.

"I'm more than capable of landing a craft of this size, _Ensign,_" the XO barks back tersely. Even as the shuttle groans against something solid and fairly large (maybe a small tree?) that the good Commander evidently missed in his final sensor sweep of the terrain below them.

"Of course, sir," Tom says dryly. "I'm sure B'Elanna won't even notice that new scratch the _Cochrane_ just picked up."

Tom bolts to exit the shuttle first, because if he spends one more second in that tiny cabin with the man, he's going to end up saying something that will cost him the pip he has left.

"Miss me?" Tom smiles, upon seeing his best friend.

"Cried myself to sleep every night without you," Harry drawls, unamused.

"No need to be prickly," the pilot sniffs.

"Sorry," Harry sighs. "It's just been more work than we anticipated. We could really use the extra hands."

"So put me to work already," Tom offers gamely. "What are my marching orders?"

"Let's check in with B'Elanna first," Harry advises. "She's the one who drew up the next survey."

"Which way is she?" Chakotay asks, now standing beside Tom.

"She was standing right around here a minute ago," Harry shakes his head, having turned himself in a complete circle. "I don't know where she could have disappeared to so quickly..."

. . .

5.

Celes gets up to deck three as fast she can when Billy comms her. Not the first of such comms to go out evidently, as when she gets there the corridor is full of people doing busy work.

"Help me with this gel pack," Billy says to her, crouched in front of an open panel. Tal isn't anything close to an engineer, but helping Billy pretend to work on a gel pack is better than Crewman Santos pretending to clean the runner that sits where bulkhead meets carpeted deck.

_That__'__s lame even for Santos,_ Celes thinks to herself, and sits down beside her best friend.

"Where is she?" Tal demands, afraid she already missed it.

"She'll be back," Telfer assures her. "Just be quiet and and act like you're working."

It's about a minute later that Lieutenant Torres comes marching down the corridor, a pile of stuff in her arms. Some of it looks like sports equipment (Tal recognizes the hockey stick and parrisses pads), but the rest of it is junk of unfathomable origin. It all gets dumped unceremoniously in front of the Captain's quarters, joining the growing pile of items the Lieutenant has evidently deposited in her several previous trips.

When she's done, Torres straightens her uniform and gives a sigh that _almost_ sounds relieved. Turns on her heel and strides down the corridor right toward Tal and Telfer.

"If she's going to sleep with him," B'Elanna remarks casually, locking eyes with gobsmacked Tal, "she's damn well going to be the one who trips over his crap."

. . .

6.

The overrides the privacy lock on the holodeck doors and braces herself for what she'll find on the other side. She already knows that she's going to walk in on conduct unbecoming officer, her pilot so drunk his best friend didn't even know what to do with him. And she tries to tell herself that whatever his personal pain, this is unacceptable. She needs to come down hard on him.

Only the man she sees on the side of the door looks so obviously gutted, his eyes red and puffy from crying and the skin around them sallow - she can't bring herself to do any of the stern things a wiser, less partial Captain would.

"Captain," Tom singsongs, "you're just in time to join your favorite pilot for a drink."

"Ensign Baytart's here?" she asks, feigning looking around. Then slides into the seat opposite his own.

"You wound," he says with an exaggerated gesture to nothing in particular, and likely trying to sound jovial. But all he sounds is broken and blind drunk.

"You've been drinking a long time now," she points out, sniffing the bottle of whiskey that sits open on the low wooden table between them.

"I have," he says, slurring noticeably on the 'h'. "I thought it would help."

"Has it?" she asks, her eyes locking with his glassy ones.

"Not even a little," he laughs, the joyless sound so grotesque and dark that it makes her inwardly cringe.

"So maybe no more drinking tonight," she says gently, and pulls his full glass away from him.

"She said he was helping her find his spirit guide," Tom tells her, still laughing that horrible laugh.

"I know," she whispers. Because she found out all the gory details this morning, right after Tom did, and she's doing her own bit of hurting.

"I guess she forgot to mention that she found her spirit guide in his pants."

She takes a deep breath and grabs the whiskey bottle, drinking directly from it. Tries to drown the cold, dry pain in her chest with the burn of alcohol and the way Tom's blue eyes fix on her.

. . .

7.

"You're saying I'm allergic to him," B'Elanna summarizes, sitting up on the bio-bed.

"I'm saying your body has an intolerance for the biochemical the virus in his body is secreting," the Doctor modifies.

"Can't you just eliminate the virus?" Tom demands, and the EMH favors him with a particularly petulant expression.

"As I've already told you, Lieutenant, I cannot kill the virus without also killing _you_."

"Isn't there at least something you can give me to stop my having… _this reaction_?" B'Elanna asks, with a vague gesture to her lower body.

"Not at the moment," the Doctor sniffs, "although I will obviously keeping working."

Paris and Torres both leave in huff, the EMH noting they take off in separate directions. Impressive how quickly a couple of inflamed body parts can cool a romantic relationship.

"What's the status of the twelve infected crew members?" the Captain inquires, coming into his office an hour later.

"Showing no symptoms of illness," he informs her, "which isn't surprising as the virus appears to have a symbiotic relationship with it's host. Seven of the infected patients have actually reported better sleep and higher energy levels."

"How likely are you to find a cure?" she asks, still sounding worried.

"I'm not hopeful," he responds candidly, "but I've been know to perform miracles, so only time will tell."

"Keep me informed," she nods, making to leave, and the Doctor thinks to stop her.

"One thing I _have_ learned is that the physiology of infected parties has a rather adverse effect on individuals of Klingon ancestry."

"Is any B'Elanna in any danger?" the Captain's eyes go wide. "I can talk to Tuvok about some kind of medical quarantine."

"That won't be necessary," the Doctor smirks. "The reaction isn't caused by mere _casual _contact."

Janeway's concern disappears, the hint of another, more pleasant emotion playing on her face before her expression snaps closed.

"I'm relieved to hear Lieutenant Torres is safe," she says simply, and then leaves him to his work.

"Yes, Captain," the Doctor say to the already closed doors. "I'm sure you're _very _relieved."

. . .

8.

It takes three full years of them growing into a difficult, sputtering relationship for Kathryn to find out that Tom sometimes has to sleep with the lights on.

"How often?" she asks him, afraid that this is something he's deliberately concealed from her.

"Not often anymore," he whispers, his eyes big and dark in the low light. "It's only during periods of stress. When the nightmares come back."

She lays quietly beside him, trying to process this information while she snuggles more firmly into him.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding for all the universe like he's failed at something. Like he's failed_ her_.

"Don't be sorry," she replies immediately, and spreads her hand across his bare chest.

There's no reason for him to be sorry. Not when it's because of her own poor judgment that three officers went on a mission involving a xenophobic race and only one of them came back - the nightmares of the psychological torture he endured now a souvenir he gets to carry with him.

Her mistake that caused Tom's bed to be emptied of the person who once laid beside him. A vacancy she conveniently and expediently filled.

"Don't be sorry," she whispers again, pressing her eyes firmly shut. Blocks out the accusing specter of the dead woman whose bed she now sleeps in.

. . .

9.

"I understand," B'Elanna cuts off Tom's long, heartfelt apology. "I do. And I'm okay."

"You are?' Tom's eyebrows shoot up, having understandably expected her to blow a fuse.

"We never said we were monogamous or that our relationship was serious. And I respect you telling me that there's someone else you've begun sleeping with."

"You do?"

At this B'Elanna mutters a Klingon curse, out of time for Tom's thick-headedness. "I'm sorry I can't grace you with my complete emotional devastation," she snarks, "but if you'll excuse me, I have plans. So you really need to go now."

"Plans," Tom repeats, now suspicious. B'Elanna's always been rather jealous, so the idea of her letting him off the hook this easily, coupled with her rush to have him leave, makes him second-guess what's going on. "Do you have a date with someone?" he demands, and B'Elanna favors him with the kind of smile people give to small children when they do something cute if kind of stupid.

"That's really none of your business, Tom," she replies, and crosses her arms.

"Who are you dating?" he presses. Because something about this is giving him a sinking feeling, and the only thing worse than knowing if he's right is _not _knowing.

B'Elanna's door chimes, the person on the other side not waiting for B'Elanna to respond before coming in. Janeway freezes for only a moment when she sees Tom, then smooths down her panic and favors him with a serene smile that seems as effortless as the way she wears her short, formfitting dress.

"Tom," she continues to smile. "What a nice surprise."

"Kathryn," Tom smiles back. And then peels his eyes away from the woman he's pursuing to look at the woman he _thought _he just dumped.

"Well this is awkward," B'Elanna bats her dark eyelashes at him. Allows herself a little triumphant smirk as Tom blinks and blinks and blinks.

. . .

10.

"Funny," B'Elanna says to the female Q. "I don't feel any different."

The female Q rolls her eyes, "given that I was just kind enough to grant you the gift of omnipotence, you could at least reward me with an observation more enthralling than the one that _every_ new Q makes."

"Have you made many Q?" B'Elanna asks. Notes her own sudden lack of frustration with her new compatriot and files it away for later examination.

"No," Q answers her, and straightens a strand of red hair. "Not many."

"Why me?"

"I told you," Q shrugs dismissively. "I've always had a soft spot for spunky Klingon women."

B'Elanna makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, looking around the bridge. Q's apparently frozen everything on the ship (maybe everything in the universe), so everyone remains standing or sitting where they were.

It occurs to B'Elanna, with a blooming sense of power, that she's now capable of doing this as well.

"Do you want to bring this one with you?" Q offers, tapping Tom on his immobile head and ruffling his blond hair.

"As in, make him a Q?"

"No, you're not ready for that," Q tsks. "But you can bring him along for fun."

"I'll pass for now," B'Elanna shrugs dismissively, the same way Q did moments earlier. "I can always come back for him."

Q smirks as B'Elanna snaps her fingers and they disappear in a flash of flight.

The new ones always say this, but they never actually come back.

. . .

* * *

_Stopping at ten (for now?) as somewhere Alpha Flyer is likely cursing my name._


End file.
